


Birthday BOY

by coffeecakelatte, jaxx69



Category: Pet Shop Boys
Genre: Birthday Fluff, M/M, present-day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecakelatte/pseuds/coffeecakelatte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxx69/pseuds/jaxx69
Summary: For his 61st birthday, Chris shows up at Neil's place, catching him completely off-guard. Misadventures ensue.
Relationships: Chris Lowe/Neil Tennant
Comments: 17
Kudos: 17





	1. Chris

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever collaboration fic, written in tandem with jaxx69! It was SUPER fun and I really enjoyed the experience of writing with someone else. We each took a perspective - me with Chris, her with Neil - and explored what was behind it, but it's really one fic from two POVs. Feel free to read either one first 😈  
> M. 
> 
> //
> 
> So, we did come up with the actual idea around Chris's birthday, but these things take time, and it took us four weeks precisely to finish this - but here it is! For me it also was the first ever collaboration, which was a really cool and fun experience. Definitely SUPER *holds up sign which says SUPER* 😎  
> J.

61\. The number flashed again in my mind. _I am sixty-one today_ , I thought, staring out the window on the train to central London. Somehow, while sixty didn’t faze me one bit, sixty-one gave me a nice rough slap in the face. _I’m really getting on._

The skies were bleary and grey, quite fitting for this time of year. Rain splattered the windows and hit my face through an invisible crack. It was nice. Refreshing. One joy that could always be counted upon was the greyness of October in England. The skies turned a dismal hue and warmth left the air, so one could bundle up as much as they pleased in cosy jackets and jumpers. I did love being cosy. Snuggling into my seat (and my own fluffy jumper), I watched as we raced past trees and streams, buildings and pavements, homes and fields, all desaturated by the rain. I was in a perversely happy mood. The world was wild and weird and I was now a year older, but gloom didn’t stick to me. Besides, I had a destination.

My seat-mate was nodding off. She didn’t recognise me, and for that I was glad. With my sunnies and hat (unbranded, unnamed), I could be comfortably anonymous here on the train. The funny thing was, I was going to meet a man that, most of the time, I couldn’t possibly be anonymous with—and not a single soul knew we were meeting. The Pet Shop Boys, At Home. It felt kind of fun, in fact. Clandestine. A secret rendezvous.

Neil. I missed him greatly. Chats and texts weren’t enough. I was so looking forward to seeing him in person, so I could get to experience all the good stuff firsthand. His sweetness, his lightning wit and razor-sharp sarcasm, his amazing laugh…then his ridiculous smile. His eyes. His enviable frame, managing to look good no matter how many pounds he’s claimed to have put on. And his warmth, both emotional and physical. He used to like nothing better than to have a good old moan about how cold he was, but now, with a bit more insulation and a fondness for cashmere jumpers, he’s quit his whinging. Funny. Most people grow colder with age, like me. But not him. And I have to say, he is very warm, especially when I’m cuddled up next to him on the sofa. He’s a better space heater than anything else on the market.

As the train pulled closer and closer to my destination, my excitement grew. I wondered what he’d got me this time. He was excellent at choosing gifts, even for me, someone notoriously hard to buy for. I’d always claim I had everything I wanted and there was nothing he could get me, and then, bam: a rare Bee Gees 12’’ from Japan. A neon yellow Dutch oven, hand-painted with bright blue zigzags. A Boy London bum bag filled with all sorts of tiny goodies, including a thumb drive with the complete set of demos we’d cut in New York. Last year it was a few jars of homemade strawberry rhubarb jam, along one of those electric clamp-on jar opener thingies. And these were only the best of a list as long as my arm. It had got to the point where I didn’t even say I had everything anymore, as clearly, I didn’t. He managed to locate a hidden need and deliver on that, giving me thoughtful gifts that reminded me of how much he cared. And there was always a cake, too. A small, lovely cake, made by a baker friend of ours. She was a dab hand at desserts, and year after year she managed to turn out something new and delicious. It was doubly special as Neil didn’t keep sweets round the flat anymore, and I kept my sweet tooth at bay for the most part. But on my birthday, all bets were off.

I was just thinking about the time we’d had a bit of fun with the coconut whipped cream when the train jeered to a halt and the mechanised voice read my stop. In a rush, I stuffed everything I’d set out into my suitcase and pulled down the zip. Then I set off in the direction of Neil’s flat.

The air was actually warmer outside the train than in, and though it was still a bit drippy out, I quite liked the weather. I considered the path I’d take. It was about a twenty-minute walk if I took the straightest route, but I wasn’t very fond of straight routes. Instead, I decided to do a detour through a beautiful park which had loads of colourful trees. That would take me over twice as long, but on the other hand, I’d been cooped up in one hunched-over bad-for-by-back position for four hours now. I could use the stretch and the exercise. Plus, I’d see fewer people along the way.

The path through the park was brown, moist and mucky, with a thin layer of yellow leaves mixed in with the mud. I counted each one as I went across, taking care to stop every once in a while and look at the trees. Their colours drew my attention. Some of the leaves seemed to be on fire, they were so brilliantly red, and others were the colour of rust. Then I entered a forest (don’t worry, I knew my way well) and walked on a bed of shed pine needles, amazed at the way the scents clung to the air. Rain could do that, I knew, but I’d briefly forgot. It was nice to get outside of my own head and into the real world. I hadn’t done that often enough.

In another hour, I was finally at Neil’s front door. His flat was on a short street lined with evergreens, so he didn’t get a chance to see much of the autumnal scenery unless he sought it out. But then again, he’d brought all the colours into his front garden. Loads of flowers I couldn’t name or pronounce filled the small plot, in reds and yellows and warm, lush browns. The rain brought out the smells, giving them this gorgeous floral sweetness and welcoming me in.

And yet, _he_ most certainly wasn’t. I’d rung the doorbell and got no answer. The lights were on, but I couldn’t see him in the window.

_Ding-dong._

Strange. Would’ve thought he’d be right at the door. Alright.

 _Diiiiiing_ -dong.

I heard a faint stirring inside. Then I saw a velvet blanket fly off the sofa and a hunched figure stand up and stretch. A boyfriend, maybe? Or a one-night stand? Hmm.

_Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiing-dong._

Much mumbling and grumbling ensued, and then the hunched figure opened the door.

“If this is for another door-to-door solicitation, I’m— _Chris?!_ ”

It wasn’t any kind of lover at all. It was Neil.

Peering over my sunglasses, I took him in from the bottom up. He had on fluffy slippers (light blue), long silky pyjamas (a much darker shade of blue, with little twinkling stars), and to top it all off, what looked to be a _nightcap._ It was floppy and grey and had a big pompom dangling off the end. He was unshaven and had a 5-o’clock shadow, and he smelled faintly of his favourite bubble bath.

My my, what a twist. I’d finally got one over on ol’ Neil, who had paid me loads of surprise visits in the past when I’d not been expecting him. I’d have to shower, shave, get dressed and, well, get my day started. Quite rude of him. But now, how the tables had turned.

This was no big deal to me, of course, but I couldn’t help but grin and josh him about it. He just looked so bloody crestfallen. “Hey, sleeping beauty,” I said. “Nice pyjamas. Are these silk?”

It seemed I had gravely offended him. “I—why are you—OF COURSE they’re silk!”

“Very nice. And what’s this thing on your head?” I flicked up the pompom and he reddened.

“It’s a nightcap,” he said, in that very _I-can’t-believe-you-don’t-know-that_ way of his, although I think he was just trying to save face.

I couldn’t believe I’d been right. I knew he had an old soul, but not _that_ old. “Who even wears those anymore?!”

“They’re comfy, alright? Besides, I’ve seen you sleeping in all sorts of stupid hats, even the disco ball. So don’t you make fun of me.” He lifted his head and spoke even more haughtily than before. “I cover my head in the name of dignity.” Then he pulled the thing off by the pompom and dropped it on top of my weekender bag. “It’s lined in bamboo. Have a feel if you like. I’ve got to take care of some things, I’ll be back in just a minute. Make yourself at home, but remember to wash your hands before you’ve touched anything.”

“Yes, mum.”

As he disappeared, I pulled my bag into the door and settled it against the nearest wall. I went to his kitchen and washed my hands, then my curiosity got the better of me. I went back to my bag and picked up his nightcap. The fact that it had just been on his head didn’t bother me. On the contrary. I knew it’d be nice, clean and warm, and when I plunked it on my head I let out a soft moan, the way you do when you get the water at just the right temperature. It felt heavenly - plush, buttery smooth, and a great conductor of heat. Like a Neil for my head. I had to concede that he’d been right.

He’d no doubt escaped into his bedroom, so I followed him there. “I’ll never make fun of you again,” I said, pointing to the cap. “This is glorious. I hope you know it’s mine now.”

“Oh, just like this jumper I bought in L.A. once was suddenly yours?” he laughed, then caught sight of me and rolled his eyes dramatically. I knew I looked dopey; that was the point. His head was larger than mine, so the cap had stretched to fit him, and drooped slightly on me. It fell just above my eyes. “You know, the one with the lined hood.”

I smiled, biting my lip. Some of the best gifts weren’t things he’d given me, but things I’d nicked. That jumper had a massive, shiny silver zip and a hood lined with the fluffiest fabric known to man. As it turned out, the body was lined with the same stuff, and even the arms were soft and fuzzy. Once it was on me, it wasn’t coming off. Same went for his amazing collection of towels—like a cheap hotel guest, I nicked a new one every time I visited. One man living alone did not need thirty towels for him and just him. My smile grew wider as memories rushed in. I was seeing Neil _._ In the flesh. And it was my birthday. He was sure to have something brilliant planned for me this year. Showing up to my door in his PJs was a ruse to throw me off.

Suddenly, his face fell. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and something inside me whispered _maybe he didn’t remember till now._ “I forgot.” _Bingo._ “I mean, I didn’t really forget, I knew I had forgotten something, but I just—I think I thought it was tomorrow. Or Tuesday.”

Some people would’ve been upset. Others would have been gobsmacked. Me, I was amused to no end. This was _hilarious._

It was fun seeing him work himself up into a tizzy over this. With every word he became more and more adorable. “I think I’m losing it, Chris. I think I’m losing the plot. I forgot _your_ birthday. I mean, what’s next, my own name? The lyrics? Oh God, can you imagine, I’ll be on stage and just black out! Can you imagine the headlines?! That would be scandal—”

“Shut up, will you,” I said, pulling him deep into my arms.

He felt fantastic. Not just because he was draped in a very luxe silk, but also because he was something tall, sturdy, warm and human. The scent of this morning’s bubble bath lingered on his skin, but mostly he smelled of just him, a sweet, unique cologne that could be packaged on its own. ( _Just Him_ , by Neil Tennant.) Eventually he returned the favour, hugging me tighter than I’d hugged him, and we stayed like that for quite a while. Then something strange happened. I’d thought that hugging him would make things better, but it only made them worse. Now that I was with him, in his embrace, I could sense how much I’d suppressed over these long, long months. I didn’t want to pull away. I felt like I wanted to spend the rest of the day glued to his side, or maybe even the rest of him. And I’d _not_ been feeling that way earlier. If anyone, it was me who needed to give his head a shake.

 _If you stop hugging him_ , I bargained with myself, _you’ll be able to look him in the eye._ So I did. I withdrew from him and took off my sunnies, setting them on the table beside us. His gaze was fond and warm.

“You haven’t aged, really,“ he said, and while I half suspected he was lying, I appreciated the effort. “You still have this sparkle in your eyes.”

That coming from the man whose eyes are made of mica. “I’m sixty-one,” I replied, hardly believing it. “Sixty-one! I don’t feel like sixty-one.”

“You don’t show it.” Flattery, flattery. “Hey, would you mind if I get changed real quick? This is, I mean—I didn't even mean to fall asleep, but—”

With a nightcap on? Yeah. Definitely lying. But it’d do no good to call him out on it. No reason to kick a dog who’s down, eh? “Take your time.”

“I’ll be back in a second.”

 _Sure you will_ , I thought as I flicked on the telly. I could probably catch a game in the time he’d be away.

A second, in Neil-speak, turned out to be twenty minutes. I was sprawled out on the sofa when I saw him emerge from his room, looking every inch the sexagenarian male model. ( _Emphasis on the ‘sex’_ , a voice chimed, and I tried to bat it away.) But really—no one else could pair light blue, light grey and denim and get away with it, much less carry it off like him. He had a wicked eye for detail, and my eye fell to his socks, a heathered grey argyle that pulled the whole look together. He never wore shoes inside. That was his ‘thing’.

I got up and came to get a better look. Everything was designer, of course, and very high quality. The jumper seemed to be cashmere, the shirt underneath a fine cotton (from the little flecked print I guessed it was Liberty), and the jeans were his favourite Armani pair. Very nice, and I told him so.

“Erm, what part?” he asked, scratching nervously at his chin. I grinned, thinking how he’d picked up that tic from me. We were forever trading habits, both good and bad. Came with the territory.

“All of it. You’ve shown me up. I mean…” Glancing at my incredibly plain outfit, I felt a little embarrassed.

“Don’t talk rubbish,” he scoffed. “You look great.” I plainly didn’t. Nothing I was wearing even hinted at luxury the way Neil’s outfit did. It was all designed to be as anonymous as possible, and though Neil seemed to like everything I wore, I wasn’t about to kid myself and call it ‘great’. It was barely good. “And don’t roll your eyes like that, it doesn’t become you. Gimme that smile. It’s your birthday, and I’m telling you you look great.”

“That doesn’t make it better, you know. Now it’s like you’re only complimenting me BECAUSE it’s my birthday.”

“No,” he said, irritation creeping into his voice, “I am not ‘only complimenting you because it’s your birthday’. Whatever that means. You always look good. Always. And if I kept telling you that, you’d be dead sick of hearing it by now. But I’m always thinking it.” _Huh_ , I thought, feeling my gut twist. “Now, you’ve got a choice. Help me with the cake, or lounge around on the sofa till it’s ready.”

Cake. Yes. It was my birthday, after all, and Neil was such an inherently domestic creature that I didn’t doubt his baking abilities for a second. “What kinda cake?”

“Whatever you like. I’ve got loads of ingredients wasting away at the back of my cupboards, but they’re still good.”

A mini alarm bell rang in my head, but I shut it off. “Right. You don’t eat any of that now, do you.”

“Only on special occasions. And with special people.” He flashed me a warm smile and touched my arm for the briefest second. A part of me flowed into him, while the rest tensed up, suddenly very aware of the tone of his other comments. He’d been flirting. That I knew, but I couldn’t tell if he wanted anything more. As he turned away, I caught a trace of his cologne, something green and woodsy that reminded me of the walk I’d just taken. I had this weird longing to get closer, to smell more of him, and I didn’t know what to do with it. Strange. I may have been sixty-one, but for all my ability to deal with my emotions, I could have been sweet sixteen.

I followed him to the kitchen. He opened his cupboards with a flourish, nearly whacking me in the head as he did, and proceeded to pull out some ingredients. A big, dusty bag of flour landed on the counter with a _thud_ , followed by a heaping sack of sugar. “Every cake contains these ingredients,” he declared.

It seemed rather an odd declaration. The sort of thing one would say if he was trying to pass himself off as a better cook than he was. I lifted the bag of flour and looked for the Best-By date, finding it in the least convenient place: the bottom. “Better if used by…September 27, 2015.” Setting the bag down, I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“So? Flour doesn’t go off, does it?”

“Er, yes it does. It’s probably rancid by now.”

“How do _you_ know? You’ve never been a great baker.”

“I’ve got this thing called Google. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“All right, Jamie Oliver, I’ve got something we can use and it’s most definitely _not_ expired.” He gave me another bag, this one far more swish than the last. “At least I hope it isn’t. I bought it last week. Supposed to be just like wheat. I think.”

The bag read _Organic Almond Flour_ , because of course it did. Trust him to not only get a posh gluten-free substitute, but low-carb too. Very trendy. “Now that’s some kind of fancy flour.” I squinted at the package, then decided to wind him up a little. “I hope the almonds were also harvested at full moon. But that’s fine. Almond’s a very nice flavour. And a good singer. Where are your cookbooks?”

“Just to the left of the pantry.”

After a long search, I found _The Joy of Cooking_ and spread it out on the table. It wasn’t the edition my family had growing up—it had lots and lots and lots of choices. Almost too many. No. Scratch the almost. It had way too many. And there were more things to consider than what I liked. There was also: how fun it would be to make, how quickly it would bake up, and how sluggish and sleepy we’d be after eating it. I was made of a different constitution now. In my twenties and thirties, I could bounce back after a few slices of cake, no problem. All that extra energy would turn me into a spinning pinball. But in my twilight years, something had shifted. I didn’t handle rich sweets so well anymore. The lighter the better; no more triple-chocolate monstrosities for me.

“I’m wai-ting…”

The tone of his voice reminded me of a show I’d seen many, many years ago. An insipid cartoon with a blue hedgehog who sounded like Steve Urkel. “OK, cool your jets, Sonic. Ah. Here. Perfect.” I laid my finger down on the recipe.

He came over and looked. “American Sponge Cake.”

“Yeah. Have you got any fresh berries? And”—I grinned—“coconut whipped cream?”

Well, that set him off. It was like I’d pushed the saturation bar on his cheeks; they went from rose to salmon, verging on lobster. He didn’t answer straight away, but I could tell he was reminiscing. We both were. Not to get too personal, but the cream tasted much better on bare skin.

Eventually the red faded and he became his old unflappable self, gazing at me with a boldness that was rather surprising. “I’ve been quite fond of coconut whipped cream ever since,” he said, checking me out. There wasn’t any other word for it. That’s exactly what he was doing, and I didn’t mind in the slightest. Two could play that game.

“Good. Because we’ll need quite a lot of it.” Pausing to give him a wink, I went back to the book. “We also need berries…lemon zest…eggs…”

“Oh. I don’t have eggs.”

Yet another thing struck from his diet! The man was plenty slim, why did he insist on striking out eggs of all things?! “Don’t you eat scrambled eggs for breakfast?”

“No,” he said, sternly and with a bit of reproach.

“You used to!”

“I’m trying to avoid animal products as much as I can.“

“Lemme have a look,” I said, getting bugged by his holier-than-thou attitude. I dove headfirst into his pantry, setting aside and commenting on all manner of weird healthy ingredients - amaranth, carob, oat milk, stevia, the lot. “…and mi-no. Mee-so?”

“Miso paste,” he sighed, as though I were a child he’d been forced to babysit last-minute. “It’s Japanese.”

I couldn’t help but play up the whole kid thing. “Wow. This leaves me-so speechless. Geddit?”

He treated me to an eye-roll so dramatic I was worried he’d sprain something. “How funny,” he drawled, like—what was his name—oh, whatever, that one poofy lion from _The Lion King._

At last my hand landed on it—a small carton of eggs, which looked to be farm-fresh. Only six when the recipe called for seven, but that couldn’t be _so_ bad, could it? “Anyway, look what I just found.”

He seemed surprised. “Oh, my neighbour always gives me those. She keeps chickens in her garden. I mean, you can’t get anything more organic and local.”

 _Course you can’t_ , I thought. “Well, she just saved the day. Now then.” I set the eggs on the table. “Looks like we have everything we need.”

* * *

We’d assigned ourselves different tasks—him on the dry ingredients, me on the wet—so we didn’t get in each other’s way. Neil’s kitchen was surprisingly roomy for a garden flat, which was perfect; we could do our own thing, without arms reaching across each other and spilling over ingredients that would stain or dust. Without a collision, in other words. It was fun. Sort of like the division of music.

But even with me having three times as many steps as him, I was still done far before he was. He was sat there at the kitchen table, squinting at the recipe book and looking for little lumps to crush with his spoon.

I returned to the cookbook. _Sift together three times and return to the sifter…_ Then back to Neil. “What’s the matter?

“I don’t—how does this work again?”

“I’m sorry, what?!” And I mean, I probably shouldn’t have reacted that way, but that was such a basic task, I sort of just assumed everyone knew how to do it. Least of all The Great Neil Tennant, Master of Everything.

“Well I gather it’s a sort of…straining process, right?” His cheeks were reddening. “But why does it say to sift three times?”

“That way, you won’t get lumps of raw flour in the cake. It’s not hard.”

“But why three times?”

“To be thorough, Mr. _Play-That-Again-And-This-Time-Don’t-Screw-Up-The-Key-Change_.”

His face scrunched up in a look of great consternation. Oops. I was half convinced he’d throw the bowl in my face. “If that’s so important, what happens if I only do it twice? Will it burst in flames? And do I also have to stir it counter-clockwise? They’ve forgotten to mention that.” He clicked his tongue indignantly. Neil didn’t exactly enjoy being bad at things—if he’d had his way, he’d be an instant master of anything he set his mind to.

Another cheeky comment could ruin things, or repair them. I weighed both and decided to take the chance. “Yeah, if you do it clockwise, you’ll open the rabbit hole Alice went down.”

All the tension in his body seemed to dissipate, and—thank _God_ —he began to laugh. With a happy sigh, he said, “OK, fair enough. It’s not like I’ve been baking up a storm in the last, oh, five years.”

“More’s the pity. You’d look good with a few extra pounds.” I poked his arm for emphasis, and he turned to me with a look of utter astonishment. I wasn’t lying. He was naturally slender and terribly fretful about gaining anything, but I found his little paunch cute and I wouldn’t mind if the rest of him filled out the same way. Course, I liked him however he was. “By the way, have you got a whisk? It’ll make the process go a lot faster.”

“It’s in the drawer where you found the beaters. You do love rummaging through my things, don’t you? And nicking them.”

I found the whisk and handed it to him, biting my tongue. He knew about the towels, and I knew he knew. “Have you put in the salt?”

“Yeah, salt’s in there. I don’t exactly know what’s a tea-spoon, mind you, so I used the actual spoon I use for tea.”

“…and how much did you put in?”

“One of those. That’s what the recipe said, right?”

Oh dear. I wasn’t exactly up on my American measurements, so I had been doing the sensible thing and Googling the conversions on my mobile. Not eyeballing it and hoping for the best. And that was beside the bigger issue at hand, which was that he’d completely misread the recipe. It called for a quarter teaspoon, not a full one—and certainly not Neil’s great, whopping, golden antique spoon that he literally used for tea. Which was on the table next to him, so I couldn’t even pretend like he hadn’t done it. An ounce of dread tipped into me. _If he’s not measured the salt right, then what about the flour?_

“…not…exactly, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.” _All right, it’ll be an almond flour sponge cake with too much salt_ , I thought before I could help it. “Use the whisk and you won’t have to bother with the triple sifting. I’ve mixed everything else.” My hopes for a delicious cake were starting to plunge, even as my mood was picking up, bit by bit. Making him happy and keeping him at a good ebb was enough to delight me, too, and it’d be best for the both of us if I didn’t admit what I knew. Besides, what exactly was I going to do now? Start fresh? Remove every extra grain of salt out of a sea of white?

Neil paused for a very long time. He seemed to be reevaluating his entire life in that pause. “What’s next?”

What was next? Good question. I took another peek at the book, looking forward to when we’d be done with American measurements. Not for a while yet. “Pre-heat the oven, and then you sift your mixture on top of mine.”

“How many times?”

“Are you kid—” I took a deep breath. _Legitimate question for a novice baker_ , I told myself. I’d been exactly the same as a child. “Once. Just once.”

Sometimes, I marvelled at the capacity for Neil to appear very, very young, even at his advanced age. Right now he looked rather like a sulky toddler, no older than six. “I just wanted to be sure,” he said, frowning. After a few moments, he shook it off and promptly regained six more decades. “Alright. Let’s get this done. Shall we?”

I took care of beating the eggs as he finished his sifting, which he’d thankfully got the hang of. Hmm. Maybe he’d benefit from a bit of hands-on experience, for the next step. I let the possibility germinate as I added the cream of tartar. Then, on impulse, an extra scoop of sugar to balance out the salt. There was something very comforting about baking with a close mate, even when neither one of us was perfect at it. Especially then, I think. We were both muddling along as best we could.

Once I was finished, I turned back to the table, where he was once again racking his brains trying to decipher a basic cooking term. “It says _fold_. Fold in the remaining whites. What kind of enigmatic language is that? I mean, this is cake. Not putting away your laundry.”

I laughed, thinking _I love a man who can slip the word ‘enigmatic’ into casual conversation_. “It’s not that kind of folding. It means that you blend in the egg whites really carefully, by adding them on the heavier mixture and then passing a spatula down through the middle. It requires some dexterity, but…” I had this little devil on my shoulder prodding me with his pitchfork, going _go on! Go on! You’ve already flirted up a storm and he’s flirted back! What’s one more comment?_ My eyes fell to his hands, which were this beguiling and very Neil-ish mix of sturdy and long. Just like he was an ideal mix of masc and fem, in both looks and personality. It’s what made him…him. I gulped and felt another stab of adrenaline pushing me on. “I think that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Colour sprang to his cheeks and he gasped. His reaction reminded me of something—I’d seen it before. When we did certain things. Certain things that had gone undone for far too long. With that, it was as though my brain was an electric kettle and he’d pushed on the button. I was now really, really thinking about the undone. The man beside me was sorely undone, but could also _be_ undone with my mouth. Or my hands. Or—

I was very glad to be sat at the table. Popping a stiffie in front of Neil would be terribly uncool.

“Who would’ve thought you’re a proper confectioner,” he said, and I could feel that long and sturdy hand resting on my arm. My bare arm. The skin underneath prickled up in seconds, and he saw it, and I knew that he saw it because he gave a smile that was sly and full of knowing.

“You don’t know everything about me,” I said, smiling and trying to rub my wrist without him seeing. His look (and touch) had unsettled me, but in a good way. Got my mind set on a new track. But who was I kidding? I’d been thinking about such things on the train there. I couldn’t pretend not to be. Not with Neil, who was sharper than the Japanese knife I’d got him for Christmas last year. And that thing could cut through stiff leather.

“So it seems. You’re still full of mysteries.” _And you’ve discovered them all, you regular Nancy Drew._ As I finished with the sugar, he swanned away to turn the oven on.

Trying to be helpful, I asked, “You know that 325 degrees Fahrenheit is about 160 degrees Celsius, right?”

He scoffed and cut his eyes at me, then adjusted the temperature. “Chris. I’m not that stupid.” Swinging back to me, he folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

His surly expression pinned me in place—at least for a second, before I figured out what to do. Instead of telling him how to do this next step, I’d show him. I had ways of getting back into his good books. “C’mere,” I said, sweetly as I could. “I’ll show you the folding.”

His arms fell to his sides, but he continued to stand in place, watching me. Which was odd. I’d told him to _c’mere._ Maybe he was still offended.

I turned back to my bowl, took a bit of the wet mixture and folded it into the dry. I could feel him watching me and suddenly, this step—which I’d done a thousand times at home, without even the slightest worry—was something I had to watch and labour over and be careful about. “It traps air bubbles in there. Makes it rise,” I explained, feeling a bit awkward. Had I done a good enough job? “Now you.”

Finally he came over and picked up the spatula, eyeing it as though it were a foreign object, not a utensil that could be found in his very own kitchen. I slipped out of my spot and claimed my place behind him, and a light bulb went off in my head.

“Gently,” I said, placing my hand on his. I picked it up and modeled the motion he’d have to do—a diving, swooping movement. I felt a bit like the rat in _Ratatouille_ , pulling on his hands to get him to do my bidding and become a proper chef. (Or a Proper Confectioner, in our case.) But the heat and the tension in the room far exceeded the rating of any Pixar film. At this range, the scent of his skin overwhelmed me. It had the same quality as his garden outside, but deeper, infused with humanity. All of which could be summed up in the word _right._ He smelled right to me. And felt right, too. Being so close to him was like a guilty pleasure, and I wondered how far I could push it. I was practically spooning him as it was, and my hands were melding with his. The distance between my body and the table was one Neil Tennant and nothing more. My body, his body, the table, the tin of coconut oil I’d seen at the back of the cupboard… fuck, got distracted again. Without even knowing it I’d been pushing against him, and I jerked my hips away. “You don’t wanna mix it. Slow and gentle movements…that’s it.” I tried to keep my voice level, but I was sure he knew what I was thinking. I felt embarrassed, like I’d given everything away. He was doing an admirable job on his own. _Leave him be,_ I thought. _Let him do the rest. Just ‘cause it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you get everything you want._ “See? I knew you’d be good at this.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the mounting pile of dishes. This was as good an excuse as any to peel myself away (however reluctantly). I kept myself busy by tidying up the kitchen, and eventually my cool returned. By the time I was done, so was Neil, and he called my name. I turned and found myself looking at a batter that seemed like it would be OK. Along with a man whose smile was bright and broad and whose glasses had slipped all the way down his nose, revealing a pair of eyes that were twinkling. This was why I’d come. Not for a cake, not for gifts, but to see Neil, happy and alive.

The oven let off a loud beep _._ _Here goes nothing._

I popped the cake inside, shut it and set the timer on Neil’s microwave oven, thinking about how in the 80s, he’d sniffed at Boy George for owning one of these. He’d sniffed at a lot of people for a lot of things. It was one of the reasons I loved him so much: his snobbiness coaxed out mine. We were young and (later) famous, and for a while we were known as “the bitchiest men in pop”. Both of us had grown up since then, meaning that we weren’t so publicly cruel anymore, but that didn’t mean we’d lost any of our razor wit. We simply kept it to our inner circle. Every once in a while we’d still ring each other for a good old-fashioned bitch. It was our own sort of male bonding. Hell, part of the reason we’d connected in the first place was our disdain for so much of the modern music at the time. Our relationship was an ever-burning fire, built on logs of love and mutual respect, but pettiness was the kindling.

“While we wait,” Neil cooed, flashing me a smile, “I think it’s time for a toast. I’ll be back in a second.”

Well, maybe not _just_ pettiness. The occasional glass of wine or spirits or even beer (if we were in Germany and Neil deigned to order one) fueled the fire, too. As I watched him disappear into his study, I waited in the kitchen, leaning on the countertop and wondering what he’d bring out this time. I didn’t drink too often anymore, either, and the rare times I did, I made it count. Special occasions only. And if turning sixty-one didn’t qualify, then I don’t know what did. (It’s possible that I was trying to make myself feeling better about it.)

He came back, proudly brandishing a bottle of Dom Perignon, and set it on the table. Eyeing the label, I chuckled to myself. With its posh curlycue lettering and its air of luxe, it was 100% Neil-bait. Plus the choice of drink in general. “Of course you’ve got a swish champagne,” I said, smiling. “In forty years, you’ve never NOT had a swish champagne.”

“Are you complaining?” he called out, not missing a beat as he went back for more.

“Not at all.”

As he returned, he seemed to be buzzing with delight. “That’s a Dom Perignon from 2002,” he said, adding a couple glasses and a corkscrew to the table. “I’ve had it for a while already, but I think today is the right day to open it.”

I shivered. That made me feel very special.

The cork flew open, the champagne was poured and glasses were raised. “Cheers,” he said, “to you. Sixty-one and still fabulous.”

 _Fabulous_. The word fizzed through me like the champagne, bubbly and bright. Yet another way we distinguished ourselves from the rest. In the mouths of journalists, _fabulous_ was a code word for _homosexual_ , and it meant nothing beyond that. A way to put us in a cute little box and strip our music of any significance beyond our sexualities. Even among gay critics it could feel reductive. But with Neil, fabulous meant what it was always supposed to mean: amazing, splendid, divine. Above that, even. Few things were truly fabulous in his view, so it was high praise indeed.

I tapped my glass against his and took a small sip, feeling his eyes on me. I bit my lip, tasting the champagne that lingered there, and let my own eyes trail down his body. Nothing wrong with a bit of flirting, right? No. Neil was an attractive man, even at his age. Hell. I say “even” like his age was a detriment; it wasn’t. I’ve always had a thing for older men. I could never understand why my friends despaired when they turned thirty, then forty, and were forever chasing boys in their twenties when I had my eye on the silver fox in the back. It’s so backwards. There’s an attractiveness in age, where everything begins to refine. Cockiness turns into confidence; innocence turns to experience. Voices deepen and hands reveal the evidence of a long, well-lived life on Earth. And nowhere was that more obvious than on Neil. I loved every pit and knot and vein of his hands, and I _adored_ his voice. Over the years, it had lowered and expanded and taken on this amazing husky richness that made every interview that much more enjoyable. I’d listened to it for forty years and there were still times when his words would send a squiggle up my spine.

“I got something else,” he said, and his voice lifted and sibilated the S. _There you go_ , I thought, as he got up to get his next surprise. _Speak of the devil._ That word sounded dirty coming from him. Snakelike. _Elsssssse._

A few moments later, he was back with a very small box, about the size of a notepad you’d stick in your pocket. I took a look at the picture, a bright, pop-art design of an orange on a yellow ledge, next to a sunny sky or sea. Very David Hockney. The label read **70% dark chocolate, Blood Orange**.

He slid the chocolate out of its packaging and handed it to me, as if to say ‘you’re first’. “Here. Have a piece.” Then he stood next to the kitchen table and watched.

I was dubious. I’ve never been a lover of dark chocolate. Why have chocolate if you’re going to make it bitter? Sort of defeats the purpose, in my book. The whole point is to make it a sweet, dessert-y experience, but of course Neil _would_ like the bitter stuff and want his choc to be an aperitif.

“I know you prefer Cadbury Dairy Milk”—I didn’t, actually, but maybe he did—“but go on, try it.”

So I gave it the old college try. After all, this was as much for him as it was for me. I wanted him to feel special about his gift and—oh. That…wasn’t bad, actually. Darker than I was used to, but by no means inedible. “Mmm,” I said, tasting notes of cocoa, orange and vanilla as it melted on my tongue. (Every new piece of chocolate had to get the melt test first before I could bite into the second piece. I was very serious about my chocolate tasting routines.) “That’s different. Bit bitter. But wow, it’s so smooth.”

He smiled, and I could tell he was feeling better about his “screw-up”, which in turn made me feel better. I wanted Neil to be happy on my birthday, since so far he’d screwed none of it up. I was in a great mood, and 99% of it was him. “Dark chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac, too,” he murmured, settling himself closer to me.

“Oh yeah,” I said, winking. The drink was making me very silly, and his closeness even sillier. “I’m super hard already.”

As his eyes grew wide and his mind began to explode (I assume, judging by the look on his face), I started to laugh. Not at my joke, it was pretty rubbish, but at the whole day and how ridiculous it had been. At Neil’s complete unpreparedness and the thought of him in his night cap, at his utter failings as a baker, at this moment, and at how joyous I felt now, when just yesterday I’d been wondering what use it was to even celebrate a birthday. Sixty-one, big deal. Seeing Neil, big deal. But now…well, he may have been unprepared, but nothing could have prepared me for how extraordinary being with him could make me feel. Giving me true happiness was a gift far greater than any gadgets or gizmos.

I set my glass aside, stood up and went to him.

“Thank you,” I said. I tried to make myself sound honest—I _was_ honest, but I could have easily sounded sarcastic given my laughter a few seconds ago. “It’s been a great birthday.”

Neil’s gaze fell to the floor. “You’re really not mad? I didn’t get you anything, this place is a mess…”

I tried to find evidence of a mess in this beautiful flat that was, by my standards, spotless. In the process, Neil’s head fell even lower. I couldn’t stand this. “Oh c’mon, don’t look so gloomy.” I finally found one little pile of fabric that was hiding under the oven, picked it up and dangled it in front of his face. “Are you talking about this one garment on the floor? Yeah. Big mess. And it’s never been about material things.” I set aside the rag and touched his arm. “If I cared, d’you think I’d stick around for forty years?”

A hush fell upon us. It wasn’t an uncomfortable one, though. Oh no. It was one of those tense, meaningful hushes that let important words sink in, and I could tell that he was processing those words now. So was I. Forty years was a bloody long time to be with someone, enough to easily get bored, and yet it seemed I couldn’t possibly tire of Neil. Not when he kept regaling me with surprises, and not when I could easily trip him up too. Not when he was so fun to be with, even at his I-don’t-suffer-fools-gladly worst.

At last the sun broke through the clouds on his face, and though his smile was small and shy, it hit me like a beam of light. “I really appreciate that, Chris. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. Honest.” I pressed into his wrist, resisting a very strong temptation to grab his hand. _Go on_ , said a voice inside me, _it’s your birthday._ My hand inched down until I felt his slightly clammy palm, the flesh rough yet somehow soft too. My fingers slid through his with an ease that shocked me. We’d rarely, if ever, held hands. That was something proper couples did. But here it felt right to be holding his hand, and it felt right to tug it in the direction of the living room so we could get cosy on his sofa while we waited.

We settled down heavy on the loveseat, and I had just enough of my mental facilities to stop myself before I curled up in his lap. There was also a logical voice inside me, and it said _don’t be so cuddly, it may be your birthday but you don’t know if he’s into this either._ It had a point. Neil did seem to be flirting with me, but it could also be the isolation, it could be the booze, and it could just be the typical flirting we sometimes did with each other for fun. Nothing serious. _It’s only a laugh, no harm done!_

I tried to be rational, as Neil would—but it was very hard when he broke off another piece of the chocolate and fed it to me by hand. Yes, you read that right. Fed it to me. By hand. With those long, clever fingers of his, brushing my mouth as I swallowed. A throb of eroticism began to beat inside me. We’d shared meals, sure, but always off a fork or spoon. Never with our bare hands. And now I knew why: it would’ve got me way too hot if we did.

“It’ll be gone soon if you’re not careful,” I said, my voice sounding strange and raspy to my ears. “Leave some for yourself. Here, lemme try.” I held out my hand. “Pass me the choc.”

He gave the small package to me, already half empty. At that point, this seemed like more of the dessert, and I’d be perfectly happy if it was. I was developing quite a taste for dark chocolate. I broke off a corner, a tiny piece to make it last, and presented it to him. Or tried. My hand shook a bit, and I made it four inches away from his mouth before it stopped. Like a bandit, nervousness had snuck up on me and stolen my confidence. I couldn’t stop thinking about how good he looked, sat there in his jumper and shirt…his smooth bald head, his dark glasses and the big, bright eyes behind them, watching me.

“What’s making you nervous?” he asked. Not _are you nervous_ , not _what’s the matter_ — _what’s making you nervous_. Told you. Sharper than a lathe.

“Nothing,” I muttered, shaking my head. His smile was sharp too.

“I’m the one who bollocksed up your birthday, Chris. Don’t be.” With that, he picked up my hand, brought it up to his mouth, bent down and swirled his tongue over my fingers, claiming the chocolate and positively dooming me. He didn’t chew it, but let it melt in his mouth as I had. When he moaned, I almost did too. Wild thoughts were raging inside me, all spun round the word _aphrodisiac_. Sure, the chocolate might’ve been a good one, but so were his hands. And his eyes. And his smell—cocoa, woods, and rain. In short, him.

He set aside the chocolate, saying it’d be a shame if we weren’t hungry for the cake. Instead we began chatting about mundane things: what he’d been up to (gardening and baths), what I’d been up to (video games and naps), what we’d been consuming (food, drink and music), what we were looking forward to. It was a miracle I could even hold a conversation, judging by how scattered I felt. I was so unbelievably happy to be with Neil, yet I felt a colossal mess. Neurons were firing at odd angles, and before I knew it I’d gone and kissed him on the cheek.

The words he’d been saying jogged through my head slowly, like the last person crossing the finish line. _So, anything else you wanna do this weekend?_

Oh God. I touched my lips. I’d pretty much given him an answer: _you._

He looked at me. I looked at him. And then the timer went off.

I was dead nervous as I followed him into the kitchen. I’d let heart win over mind, something I rarely did. And I had no clue whether he liked it or not. He seemed to be just as shocked as I was. Bravely (or foolishly), I took the in-for-a-penny, in-for-a-pound approach by stealing a glance at his arse as he pulled out the cake.

The cake… let’s just say Neil’s arse looked better. It seemed quite dense for a sponge cake, the sides caved in and the top had burned. Perhaps Neil’s oven was too hot, or we’d left it in for too long, or it had something to do with the flour. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. And if it was, we had plenty of other desserts to enjoy.

I got out the bowl of strawberries. They hadn’t entirely defrosted yet, so I put them in the microwave for a few seconds and got out for the whipped cream. While I did, I could hear Neil setting it on a plate and cutting out a slice. I frowned. It was too late now to tell him that cakes weren’t like brownies, they needed to cool before being cut. Besides, this would give us a test run of the taste.

“Oh, birthday boy!” he sang. I turned, and he was holding out a bite for me. “Blow on it, it’ll be hot.”

I did, then dutifully took the bite.

A bite of hot, salty, dense, oily, almondy, burnt sponge cake.

“I’m sorry,” I told him sadly. “It’s…not very good.” Give me some credit: I did an excellent job holding my tongue on the word _inedible_.

I was worried he’d tumble into another sulk. But what he did instead surprised me. He sighed, giggled, and said, “Ah, well, gave it the old college try, didn’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have a bite just to see.” He carved another bite, this time from the back, and tried it. A look of horror came over his eyes. “Chris. It’s _inedible_.”

I snorted. Sometimes we really were like one mind. “Well, you put a whole teaspoon of salt in there!”

“That’s what it said!”

I was sure I was right. Maybe Neil _was_ going around the bend. “Erm…no.”

To prove me wrong, he stalked over to what he called his “cookbook nook”, plucked _The Joy of Cooking_ off the shelf and spread it out on the table. Conveniently, it opened on the right page, and he jabbed his finger at the measurement—until it stopped a centimetre away.

His lips became a perfect parabola. “Oh, these bloody American measurements,” he said, shutting the book with a huff. This was one of my favourite Neils: surly, I’ve-been-proven-wrong-so-bah-to-everything Neil.

“No cake recipe calls for a full teaspoon of salt, love,” I said, smiling.

The curve of his lips deepened in direct proportion with my smile. He was actually pouting. Fun fact: while I look like the big sulky one in photos, in real life it’s usually the opposite. I grin, he grimaces. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“What would you have done then? UNMIX it?“

He let out an enormous sigh. Then the life came back to his wonderful, twinkling eyes. “Well. I say we bin this disaster and continue what we were doing, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

A shiver ran up my back. Did he mean the hand-feeding? The conversation? Or…

“Y-yeah,” I said. Whatever he had in mind, I was all in.

He started walking to the couch, turned and did that “come-hither” motion with his finger. My head inflamed. I followed him close like his shadow, and he sat down before I could, sprawling out, loose and limber. He took up most of the couch, in fact. I eyed him up, realising that if I wanted to sit down too, I’d be on top of him.

He lifted those eyebrows languidly, then nodded down at himself. _Oh._

“There,” he said, once I’d found a comfortable spot for me. I was curled up against him, my back to his front, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his body’s vibrant thrum. It was bliss—the sort of bliss you hardly believe exists when you’ve not seen anyone in person for over six months. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No, it was…pretty easy, actually.” _Hard._ Yes, nestling with Neil wasn’t hard, but some things were. I shifted, then shivered, feeling one of those things press into me. “So, is this what you wanted? To cuddle up with me?”

“Oh, Chris,” he sighed, batting at the table behind him to find the chocolate. He didn’t say anything more, but his _not_ saying anything revealed all that I needed to know.

He found the chocolate and broke off a piece. It turned out to be long and skinny, so I sucked at it, mouthing till I reached his finger. It seemed like a natural extension of the dessert—they all landed in the general category of “things I wanted in my mouth”—so I let it slip into my mouth too. With me, the slightest pass of his tongue over my fingers sent shock waves, but I didn’t know if his were the same.

They were.

Suddenly a hand was tightening in my shirt, and I could feel his knuckles scraping my back. His hot breath rolled over my neck like steam, and his lips weren’t far behind. Then I realised that if I leaned in, they would brush my bare skin. The thought made my mind go blank and my body go incredibly still.

“Chris,” he whispered.

I looked up at him upside down.

“Turn around.”

It took a lot of jostling to shift myself out of place and then back into place: facing him, straddling his long, hot thigh. By the time I did, his hands were already on me.

“Now,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “Kiss me like you mean it.”


	2. Neil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exact same story, but from Neil's point of view. How exciting.

I’ve always been a great lover of autumn, the cosiest of all seasons. In a way the dull days are almost nicer than the sunny ones: what can be better than going for a walk, getting all cold and damp and then coming back inside to a nice hot drink? I loved everything about it: the vibrant, beautiful colours, the crisp mornings and the omnipresent smells of pinewood and cinnamon.

Maybe I had been enjoying my favourite season a little bit too much. I had lost track of time. All the days were the same, but I have to admit, I loved having no fixed schedule for a change. I indulged in it. I treated myself to long walks, bubble baths, hours and hours of reading and writing and taking care of my garden. And to be really honest, on some days I didn’t even know which day of the week it was. Most of the time, I didn’t care too much. But then one morning, I woke up with a subtle, indeterminable feeling in my chest. A nagging, subliminal uncertainty. The feeling you have when you’re driving to the airport and you know you’ve forgotten something at home. I knew I had forgotten _something_. Something important.

I tried to tell myself that I would remember at some point, though, and the best thing to clear your head is to tidy up your surroundings. So I spent a lovely morning dusting all the surfaces in the living room and watering the plants (and then dusting the plants). But while I was rearranging some books in my big bookshelf (every few months I change my system – recently I had sorted them by author and genre, but I thought that it would look better to sort them by colour), I still felt that there was this one thought that had slipped out of my brain, this _something_ , and it wouldn’t come back to me. Maybe a nice bath and a cup of tea would help. After the bath I felt so comfortable that I put my pyjamas back on, my slippers and even my night cap (something I’d bought only a couple years ago and one of the most valuable things ever!) and sat down on my sofa with a Strugazki novel I had started reading a while back. And after a few pages I felt my eyelids getting heavier and heavier, until I decided to close my eyes for not longer than a minute.

The doorbell rang and the book fell off my lap when I jumped up, startled, trying to free myself from my blanket. For a moment I didn’t know if the sound of the bell was a part of a dream, or if it had really happened. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes and then it rang again. My first instinct was to ignore it, but then curiosity beat me and I went to open the door, mumbling something to myself about how it better not be another door-to-door solicitation. But when I opened, I looked into a very familiar face, and suddenly the realisation of what I had forgotten hit me like a ton of bricks. And I wanted to shut the door again, turn back time and start the day all over again. It was Chris. And I had forgotten his birthday. Of all the people in the whole world, I had forgotten HIS birthday.

Chris smiled when he saw me and I felt my face heating up with embarrassment. Not only had I forgotten his birthday, I was standing there in my pyjamas, my nightcap and my slippers. This, for sure, was something he would never let me forget anymore. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,“ Chris said with a smirk. “Nice pyjamas. Are these silk?“

“I- why are you- OF COURSE they’re silk!” As if it mattered. 

Chris nodded, still grinning. “Very nice. And what is this thing on your head?“

I clicked my tongue. “It’s a nightcap.“

Chris snorted. “Who even WEARS those anymore?“

“They’re comfy! Besides, I’ve seen you sleeping in all sorts of hats. Even the disco ball. So don’t you make fun of me. I cover my head in the name of dignity.“ I took it off and dropped it on his bag. “It’s lined in bamboo. Have a feel if you like. I’ve got to take care of some things, I’ll be back in just a minute. Make yourself at home, but remember to wash your hands before you’ve touched anything.“ I heard him grumble something behind me, but I was already on my way back to the living room, so I couldn’t hear it. 

I quickly picked up the book from the floor and put the blanket together, then looked around to see if there was anything else I needed to get rid of--but fortunately, the place was pretty flawless.

“I’ll NEVER make fun of you again,“ I heard Chris behind me. He had entered the room and he was wearing my nightcap. He was also still wearing his sunglasses, but I didn’t mind that I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew exactly what they looked like. I knew every little wrinkle that would show around his eyes when he laughed his endearing and infectious laugh. “This is glorious. I hope you know it’s mine now.“ 

I laughed. “Oh, just like this jumper I bought in L.A. once was suddenly yours? The one with the lined hood.“ 

Chris bit his lower lip and a coy smile appeared on his face. And then, painfully, I remembered the reason for his visit. I had to say something and everything seemed wrong. While my brain was trying to put a sentence together, all sorts of emotions were having a party in my stomach, some of them most definitely connected to the way he was still smiling at me. Nervousness, anxiety, joy, delight, shame, excitement, shyness, everything happened at the same time. And Chris was obviously waiting for me to say something.

“I’m SO sorry,“ I finally uttered. “I forgot. I mean, I didn’t really forget, I knew I had forgotten something, but I just- I think I thought it was tomorrow. Or Tuesday.“

Chris’s smile became even brighter.

“I think I’m losing it, Chris,“ I carried on rambling, really working myself up now. “I think I’m losing the plot. I forgot YOUR birthday. I mean, what’s next, my own name? The lyrics? Oh God, can you IMAGINE, I’ll be on stage and just black out! Can you imagine the HEADLINES?! That would be scandal-“

And then, there were arms wrapping tightly around myself, so unexpected, that it took me a moment to realise that it was Chris giving me a big hug.

“Shut up, will you,“ he said.

He caught me completely off guard. The sudden contact made me gasp, but after the first shock, I returned the hug and the feeling of his body against mine was amazing. I knew him so well, the feeling of his arms around me wasn’t new to me, but right now, it was sensational. It made me feel complete. And the longer I hugged him, the tighter it became. The less I wanted to let go. 

Had it really been months? I mean, we had seen each other – but only work-related, and usually via Skype. No personal conversations, definitely no hugs or any sort of physical contact (something which has always been very natural between us). We hadn’t even been out for dinner. So we had _seen_ each other, but we had not been together. And yes--February, March, April--over half the year spent apart. Probably the longest time we’d been apart since 1981. 

Finally, I stepped back and looked at Chris. And he took his glasses off, so that I could see his eyes, brown and beautiful--and right now, they appeared very young. 

“You haven’t aged, really,“ I said. “You still have this sparkle in your eyes.“

“I’m sixty-one,“ he said. “Sixty-one! I don’t feel like sixty-one.“

“You don’t show it. Hey, would you give me a minute? I’d just get changed real quick? This is, I mean- I didn’t even mean to fall asleep, but-“

“Take your time.“ He sat down on the sofa. He had not taken his shoes off and I felt the urge to tell him, but I could stop myself.

“I’ll be back in a second.“ And without any other words I headed to my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

I needed a moment to catch my breath and now, on my own, I finally could allow myself to feel all these emotions which were having a rave in my stomach and chest. Maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was the pure joy of being reunited with Chris and the realisation of how much I actually had missed him. In a very dusty corner of my mind I found a blurry memory of Chris asking me if I wanted to spend his birthday with him. And of course I had said yes. How could I forget? I didn’t even get him a gift, which I always do – even though it’s quite difficult to find something for Mr. I-don’t-need-anything. I wasn’t even half as good at choosing gifts as he was. One year he got me a rare, leather-bound complete edition of Arthur Rimbaud, another year a beautiful, antique oil-painting of a windmill in East Sussex in an ornamented wooden frame (and he also took me out to see the original windmill, in addition to a wonderful weekend trip to the pretty little village of Alfriston. I mean, what can I say?). No matter how moody he was sometimes, I knew that he cared deeply. And I couldn’t even remember his birthday. Usually I would have also bought him a cake, but that could be fixable, maybe--an idea had popped up in my mind. 

But first things first. I opened my wardrobe and took some shirts out. A white one? Nah. How about black? Too dull maybe. Blue. Blue was always a good choice. I put on a blue shirt and decided that it emphasised my belly too much. Not good. The next one smelled like it had been sitting in there for decades, which it probably had, and I threw it on the bed with the other one.

_You’re ridiculous_ , I said to myself. _It’s just Chris_.

No. Wait. _Just_ Chris? Understatement of the century. He was so much more than _just_ Chris. He was my business partner. My colleague. My best friend. My…my other half, in more than one way. Without him, I’d just be me. Not part of the Pet Shop Boys. He completed me. Funny thing is, he calls me a wordsmith, and I may be one, but if there was one thing I’d never found the right words for, it was him. Or us, rather. There are over one million words in the English language, and there are no words I could think of to describe us. But if there is one word which is definitely unsuitable and doesn’t do him justice, it’s _just_.

But back to the important things. Clothes. Something classy, maybe, slightly elegant, but not too much. Something appropriate for our first meeting since forever. Light blue. Splendid. And on top, one of these lovely cashmere jumpers which I recently bought. The light grey one. Super cosy and warm. And a nice pair of jeans. After having considered several pairs, my final choice was a slim-fit Armani jeans, which flattered my legs. So that was that sorted out. As some time had passed since my bath, I decided to put on a fragrance. Maybe this new one I got, the one that smelled so autumnal and woodsy. _Pinewood & Petrichor_ it said on the flacon, and yes, the alliteration had also been a reason for me to buy it. I sprinkled a bit on my neck and let it settle. It smelled like a walk in the woods on a damp and cloudy afternoon.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a moment. Should I have a shave again? Maybe that would be over the top, and it would also irritate my skin. Chris was quite stubbly himself, he shouldn’t be the one to judge anyway. I took my glasses off, polished them and put them back on. Then I took a deep breath and returned to the living room. Now that I was dressed appropriately, I felt excited to see him. As if it was our first meeting ever. The long absence had brought new feelings to the surface; when you see someone all the time, you grow accustomed to them. Take them for granted. You forget about all the special things you used to admire: the way someone moves their hands around while they speak. The way they pronounce certain words, and how much you like hearing them saying these words. Even the way someone smells. Also, the idea I’d had to make up for not having a present was filling me up with anticipation. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to see the brightest smile and the shy glow on his face and I wanted to hug him again, too.

When I returned to the living room, Chris was lying on the sofa (with his shoes STILL on!) and I felt his eyes on me the moment I came in. He studied me from head to toe, then he got up and came over, an approving smile on his lips.

“Very nice.“

“Erm…“ I began to scratch my chin. Maybe I should have had a shave again. I couldn’t quite determine the intention behind Chris’s compliment, and suddenly I seriously questioned my decision to pair light-blue with grey. It should have been dark grey or black instead. “What part?“

“All of it. You’ve shown me up. I mean…“ Chris looked down on himself. He was wearing a black BOY London hoodie and a good pair of jeans – a loose fit, but still flattering his slim figure. On his feet a pair of white Adidas sneakers. The whole outfit was so _him_ , it had his name written all over it. I knew that he always tried to blend in with the crowd and become anonymous, but even in the most plain clothes (and his hoodie was most definitely not plain) he would always stick out somehow. It was something inherent to him – he was not just a face in the crowd. He would never be.

“Don’t talk rubbish, you look great,“ I said, hit by a sudden and strong fondness. Chris rolled his eyes. “And don’t roll your eyes like that, it doesn’t become you,“ I carried on. “Gimme that smile. It’s your birthday, and I’m telling you, you look great.“

“That doesn’t make it better, you know. Now it’s like you’re only complimenting me BECAUSE it’s my birthday.”

That was not the reaction I had been hoping for. “No,“ I said, trying to find some words to express the thoughts going through my mind. Now he had completely put me off my stride and the result was that I just rambled on regardless. “I am not ‘only complimenting you because it’s your birthday’. Whatever that means. You always look good. Always.“ I couldn’t stop myself anymore. “And if I kept telling you that, you’d be dead sick of hearing it by now. But I’m always thinking it.” _Woooow, ease up_ , an inner voice said. Not that he didn’t deserve to know, but complimenting Chris wasn’t easy. If I said too much, he would consider it over the top and wouldn’t believe me anymore. I had already noticed that flash of surprise in his eyes, so I would stop for now. And there was also something else which was even more important right now; it was still his birthday after all.

“Now, you’ve got a choice,“ I said. “Help me with the cake or lounge around on the sofa till it’s ready.“ I didn’t buy a cake, so we would have to make one. How difficult could that be?

Immediately, his face got brighter. He was so easy to please. “What kinda cake?“

“Whatever you like. I’ve got loads of ingredients wasting away at the back of my cupboards, but they’re still good.”

“Right. You don’t eat any of that now, do you.”

I decided not to tell him about the box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray which I had demolished the week before. It had been a moment of weakness (and pleasure). “Only on special occasions,“ I said instead, smiling at him. Then I reached out and, driven by a deep longing for physical contact, touched his arm. Just a quick brush of my fingers, but better than nothing for now. “And with special people.“

I turned away to go to the kitchen. I knew that he would follow me. I also knew that my last sentences had been pretty flirtatious, and that he would have noticed. It hadn’t been a conscious move or something I had planned, just an instinct. It felt right. Like his arms around me earlier had felt right. And who knew what else was going to happen. A playful flirt was not too unusual between us, it happened every now and then. On some occasions it had led to, well, more; on others not. Whatever was going to happen would be fine, there was no pressure, no expectations, no rules. 

The kitchen was the smallest room in my flat, but still large enough for us to not step on each other’s feet. Chris and I had always been very fond of eating out, and even though I knew how to cook a decent meal, quite often I couldn’t find the enthusiasm. So over the years, things had been bought with the best intentions and never been used. I opened the door to the pantry and looked around. There was literally enough stuff to feed an army. I picked up a bag of flour and a bag of sugar and put it on the kitchen table. At least something to start with. What else did one need to make a cake?

“Every cake contains these ingredients,“ I mumbled, rather to myself, but Chris heard it and looked at me as if I was completely naff. He picked up the flour and examined it very carefully.

“Better if used by…September 27, 2015.“ He raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “Really?“

“So?“ I said. “Flour doesn’t go off, does it?“

Chris stared at me in total disbelief. “Erm, yes, it does. It’s probably rancid by now.“

I crossed my arms. “How do you know? You’ve never been a great baker.“

“I’ve got this thing called Google. Maybe you’ve heard of it?“

I scoffed. Maybe I’d been a bit too mean. But he could be a bigger smart-arse than myself and I hated it when he went all sardonic, especially when he was right. “All right, Jamie Oliver, I’ve got something we can use and it’s most definitely not expired.“ I picked up something from the counter I’d only bought recently: almond flour. I’d bought it with the actual intention to use it, therefore it wasn’t buried in the pantry (yet). “At least I hope it isn’t. I bought this last week. Supposed to be just like wheat. I think.“

“Now that’s some kind of fancy flour,“ Chris said, chuckling. “I hope the almonds were also harvested at full moon. But that’s fine. Almond’s a very nice flavour.“ He glimpsed at me. “And a good singer.“

I opened my mouth to retort something, but I couldn’t even come up with anything. I knew he was only winding me up--and I probably deserved it. But I wouldn’t put up with it. He’d sparked something in me. I knew there wasn’t anything going on between him and Marc, and it wasn’t quite envy I felt, more the feeling of a challenge. If he wanted to make ambiguous comments about other people, I would make sure he would forget all about them.

His face had turned all innocent again and he looked around. “Where are all your cookbooks?”

“Just to the left of the pantry.“

I had to suppress a grin when Chris had to stand on tiptoes to reach the books on top of the shelf – our difference in height was not massive, but it was undeniable. He spent a lot of time deciding which one to take out the shelf, before he finally put The Joy of Cooking on the table. I couldn’t even remember how long I’d had it, but it was definitely very old. He stopped several times, looked at different recipes, but nothing seemed to be good enough for him.

“I’m wai-ting…,“ I said after a while.

Chris rolled his eyes again. “OK, cool your jets, Sonic.“ And while I was trying to guess what or who Sonic was supposed to be, he finally made a decision and put his finger on a page that showed something like a Victoria sponge, topped with loads of berries. “Ah. Here. Perfect.“

I looked over his shoulder and read the title: “American Sponge Cake.“

“Yeah. Have you got any fresh berries? And…“ He turned towards me and grinned. “…Coconut whipped cream?“

I felt my face heating up when he mentioned the latter. I had _not_ expected this. The coconut whipped cream incident had happened a few years ago, maybe around my 60th birthday. And it had started with nothing more but a playful flirt. I smiled thinking about it, and my heart rate rose a little. 

We locked eyes for a moment and I noticed that Chris’s cheeks had gained a touch of pink, so I guessed he was also thinking about it. I inhaled deeply.

“I’ve been quite fond of coconut whipped cream ever since,“ I said with a soft voice and my eyes wandered away from his face, down to his hands, over his chest. He licked his lips.

“Good,“ he said then. “Because we’ll need quite a lot of it.“ He winked, then he picked up the book again. “We also need berries…lemon zest…eggs…“

“Oh. I don’t have eggs.“

He frowned. “Don’t you eat scrambled eggs for breakfast?“

“No.“

“You used to!”

“I’m trying to avoid animal products as much as I can.“

“Lemme have a look.“ He squeezed past me and inspected my pantry. “What on earth is amaranth?“ he muttered, pushing some things away to see what was behind them. “And my- no. Mee-so?“

“Miso paste. It’s Japanese.“

“Wow. This leaves me-so speechless. Geddit?“ He grinned. 

Now I was the one who rolled his eyes. “How funny.“

“Anyway.“ He continued rummaging around and then he finally produced a package of eggs. “Look what I just found.“ He was very pleased with himself.

“Oh,“ I said. I had completely forgotten about them. “My neighbour always gives me those. She keeps chickens in her garden. I mean, you can’t get anything more organic and local.“

“Well, she just saved the day. Now then.“ Chris set the eggs on the table. “Looks like we have everything we need.“

//

As it turned out, Chris actually seemed to know what he was doing. We had decided that he would mix the wet ingredients and I the dry ones, and I hadn’t even really begun when he was already done. He appeared to be enjoying it. I couldn’t really say the same, though. I found the instructions in the cookbook rather cryptic. It said _Sift together three times and return to the sifter: 1 cup sifted cake flour, 1 teaspoon of salt_. How much was a teaspoon? Why did we have to use a recipe with American measurements? The spoons I used for tea had all sorts of different sizes. Which teaspoon would equal the amount of _1 teaspoon_? In the end, I picked the one I usually used for my own afternoon tea, a pretty golden one which I had found in an antique shop ages ago. A proper teaspoon. But what really gave me a headache was the bit with _three times_. Why three times? While I was still pondering, I started to crush little lumps in the flour with the spoon, so that I was at least doing something. 

“What’s the matter?“ Chris asked, probably trying to be helpful, but it made me feel like an idiot. This really wasn’t rocket science, but I couldn’t work it out and it let me doubt myself by now. Was I going round the bend after all?

“I don’t--how does this work again?“ I asked and felt like a child at school who couldn’t work out 2 plus 2.

“I’m sorry, what?!“ Chris looked at me half amused, half shell-shocked, which didn’t exactly make me feel better.

“Well, I gather it’s a sort of…straining process, right?“ I felt my face heating up again. Great. Bloody great. What would he think of me now? Neil Tennant, part of the UK’s most successful pop duo in history, wasn’t able to make cake batter. “But why does it say to sift three times?“

“That way, you won’t get lumps of raw flour in the cake.“ Chris smiled. “It’s not hard.”

_And you‘re not helpful_ , I thought. But I didn’t say it. I knew it wasn’t hard, but he hadn’t answered my question, so I asked again with a bit more emphasis.

“But why three times?“

“To be thorough, Mr. Play-That-Again-And-This-Time-Don’t-Screw-Up-The-Key-Change.”

Oh, yeah. Now he’d played this card, referring to me bossing him around in the studio, being that perfectionist smart-arse who I was, the one who hated imperfection and disdained incompetence. Most of all my own incompetence. 

“If that’s so important,“ I snapped, “what happens if I only do it twice? Will it burst in flames? And do I also have to stir it counter-clockwise? They’ve forgotten to mention that.“

Chris rolled his eyes. “Yeah, if you do it clockwise, you’ll open the rabbit hole Alice went down.“

It was so ridiculous, I couldn’t do anything but laugh and I felt myself easing up again. It was always the same – we could bicker with each other for ages, but it was never really mean or serious. Not surprising that people liked to call us an old married couple. I sighed. “OK, fair enough. It’s not like I’ve been baking up a storm in the last, oh, five years.” A lie. I couldn’t recall having baked anything in more than a decade.

“More’s the pity. You’d look good with a few extra pounds.” Chris grinned and poked my arm, leaving me dumbstruck. I didn’t even know how to react – I certainly would not try and put on even more extra pounds, I already had quite a few of them. And I could not actually imagine that he’d like them. Mind you, it had been some time since he’d seen me undressed, and I’d probably gained a few new ones. But I also noticed the fond, flirty tone in Chris’s voice, and I couldn’t be mad at him. In fact, his words really warmed my heart. Over the years, we had gained weight, lost weight, lost our hair and gained weight again. Our appearance had changed a lot, but with him, it had never mattered. When I was with him, I still felt like the 27 year old guy I had been when I first met him. Not once, not even for a split-second in the last 40 years had he given me the feeling that age had made me less attractive.

“By the way,“ Chris carried on. “Have you got a little whisk? It’ll make the process go a lot faster.”

“It’s in the drawer where you found the beaters.“ Then I decided that it was my turn to wind him up a bit. “You do love rummaging through my things, don’t you?“ I smirked. “And nicking them.” I knew very well that Chris had a selection of my towels at his place – it cracked me up that I would always find a towel in his bathroom I knew very well whenever I visited him. I had wondered often if he actually thought I didn’t notice. But what can I say, they were incredibly fluffy and soft. 

Chris’s eyes sparkled boldly. He took the whisk out the drawer and handed it to me. “Have you put in the salt?“

“Yeah, salt’s in there. I don’t exactly know what’s a teaspoon, mind you, so I used the actual spoon I use for tea.”

“...and how much did you put in?” Chris looked concerned.

“One of those.“ I pointed to my teaspoon. “That’s what the recipe said, right?”

I could see in Chris’s face that it wasn’t right. While most people only knew his stage-face, I knew them all. The many expressions of Christopher Lowe. For me, his face was an open book and right now, it was opened on the page _You gotta be bloody kidding me_.

“…not…exactly,“ he finally said, probably trying not to discourage me completely. And then he even added: “But I’m sure it’ll be fine.“ He was lying. But then, since when was he an expert when it came to American measurements? What’s one supposed to think when it says _teaspoon_?

“Use the whisk and you won’t have to bother with the triple sifting. I’ve mixed everything else.“ He smiled again, as if to say _Don’t worry_. I sighed. The whole day was a catastrophe, and it was supposed to be the opposite. It was Chris’s birthday and I didn’t have a present for him, nor a cake, and the cake we were trying to make was turning into a disaster. Our first meeting after all this time should have been different. I should have got him a proper cake. And a gift. Maybe we could have had dinner together, a nice glass of wine later, and then seen where the evening would have taken us. Instead I had revealed that I was a total knob when it came to baking and American measurements. I looked up to his face, suddenly realising that I had been quiet for a long time already. I cleared my throat.

“What’s next?“ I asked. 

Chris peeked into the book again, frowning. “Pre-heat the oven,“ he said. “And then you sift your mixture over the top of mine.“

“How many times?“ 

“Are you kid-“ He interrupted himself. “Once. Just once.“

“Just wanted to be sure.“ Then I lifted my chin and straightened my shoulders, ready for the _grand finale_ of our Great British Bake Off. “Let’s get this done. Shall we?“

Chris nodded, and while I did the sifting, he beat the remaining egg whites and added the cream of tartar. When I was done, I skimmed the recipe. “It says _fold_ ,“ I said. “Fold in the remaining whites. What kind of enigmatic language is that? I mean, this is cake. Not putting away your laundry.“

“It’s not that kind of folding.“ Chris laughed. “It means you blend in the egg whites really carefully, by adding them on the heavier mixture and then passing a spatula down through the middle. It requires some dexterity, but…“ His eyes got fixed on my fingers and he paused for a second. “I think that shouldn’t be a problem for you.“ 

I inhaled deeply while all sorts of memories flashed through my mind. Memories of times when my hands had been on him. Memories of how he felt, how his voice had sounded. Oh my. 

“Who would have thought you’re a proper confectioner,“ I said and put my hand on his arm. He had pulled up his sleeves, so I quickly brushed the bare skin of his forearm with my fingertips. I could see that it made the hair on his arm stand on end.

As soon as I withdrew my hand, Chris rubbed his wrist with his own hand, as if to cover up the goose bumps. An impish smile had appeared on his face. “You don’t know everything about me.“ 

“So it seems. You’re still full of mysteries.“ With a quick and meaningful twitch of my eyebrows, I turned away to turn the oven on, while Chris added the sugar to the egg whites. 

“You know that 325° Fahrenheit is about 160° Celsius, right?“

“Chris, I’m not _that_ stupid,“ I moaned. Unfortunately, that was another lie. I was secretly glad he had told me and I hoped that he wouldn’t notice how I turned the heat from 200 degrees down to 160. Numbers weren’t my thing. Words were. Chris, on the other hand, was like a pocket calculator sometimes. 

He put the sugar away, opened the drawer again and picked up a spatula. 

“C’mere,“ he said, smiling softly. “I’ll show you the folding.“

Out of the blue, a bunch of butterflies swarmed out in my stomach. It was the fondness in his face and his voice, the way he had reacted to my touch earlier, all of these moments mixed together like our batter--and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be close to him again. The ridiculous thing about that was that I stood there rooted to the spot, instead of actually following his invitation and coming closer. 

“Look.“ With the spatula, he scraped some of the beaten egg whites out of the one bowl and placed the mass in the second bowl, on top of the other ingredients. Then, slowly, he pushed it down with the spatula, moved it across the bottom and up again. He repeated this procedure until the two mixtures were combined. “It traps air bubbles in there. Makes it rise.“ He tipped the spatula at me. “Now you.“

I finally walked over to him, took some of the fluffy white stuff and placed it in the bowl. Hesitantly I held the spatula above it, afraid to ruin everything. 

“Gently.“ Chris had stepped behind me and now he put his hand on mine. It felt almost like a hug. When he spoke, his breath brushed my neck, which made it nearly impossible to concentrate on what he said.

“You don’t wanna mix it,“ he breathed. “Slow and gentle movements…“ With the lightest bit of pressure he conducted my hand down, so that the spatula went through the egg whites until it was all, how was it called? Folded in.

I gritted my teeth. The slow and gentle movements I was now thinking about didn’t have anything to do with baking. I wondered if Chris was thinking the same. He had moved closer to me, so that I was trapped between him and the table. Not that this was a bad thing. I could feel his body behind me, all of him, including the parts that could be dangerous. Like his hips, his thighs, and what was between them. I felt myself slightly pushed against the table and I was sure that if he’d only move a millimetre closer and push me against that table a little bit harder, I’d swipe everything off of it, turn round, sit on the table and-

“That’s it.“ His words got me back to reality and I took a deep breath. Chris let go of my hand. My heart was racing. 

“See? I knew you’d be good at this.“ 

He let me do the rest of it myself, while he put some things into the dishwasher. I greatly appreciated that, nothing was worse than dirty dishes in the kitchen. Then, with the last bit of the egg whites folded in, the batter was finally ready to go into the oven. I felt a wave of relief going through me when Chris shut the oven, with the cake sitting safely in there. Enough catastrophes. Things could only get better now. 

And I had indeed thought of something that could turn the evening around, while I had been sifting the flour, something I had forgotten – something I’d kept for a special occasion. 

“While we wait,“ I said, smiling winningly, “I think it’s time for a toast. I’ll be back in a second.“

In a little glass cabinet in my study I kept some special treasures, and now it was the right time to get one of them out. For a moment I stood there, trying to calm my breath down. Chris‘s flirty comments earlier and the feeling of his body pressed against mine had made my blood boil in my veins. By now, I was pretty damn sure that it wasn’t only cake he wanted. I knew the feeling from the past. And the longing. It wasn’t always there, sometimes we were quite happy to share a hotel room or even a bed and nothing would happen. But on other times, it was there, and when it was there, it was strong. An undertow pulling us towards each other, until we would give in. It had never had a negative effect on our professional relationship or our friendship; it was just something we seemed to be needing from each other sometimes. And we both knew that. Now, it was definitely there.

When I returned to the kitchen, Chris chuckled. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, with this natural nonchalance which was so typical for him, gazing at me with expectant eyes. I had to bite my tongue a little bit before I lost myself in another daydream again. But he looked too handsome.

“Of course you’ve got a swish champagne,“ he said. “In forty years, you’ve never NOT had a swish champagne.“

I smiled and put the bottle on the table, then headed back out to fetch glasses. The good ones, designed by a fancy Scandinavian newcomer. “Are you complaining?“ I shouted over to him.

“Not at all.“

I returned with the glasses, removed the cork with a loud pop and poured in some for him, then for myself. “That’s a Dom Perignon from 2002. It’s supposed to be one of the finest years. I’ve had it for a while already, but I think today is the right day to open it.“ 

Chris’s eyes twinkled and he briefly looked at me, scratching his nose. He was flattered.

“Cheers,“ I said, raising my glass. “To you. Sixty-one and still fabulous.“

We locked eyes and clinged our glasses against each other’s. He took the first sip, but he didn’t take his eyes off of me. His gaze was penetrating. Stimulating. I felt it in my chest from where a warm feeling spread through my whole body. And I also felt it…deeper down.

“I got something else,“ I said, suddenly remembering another special treat. Hidden somewhere in my pantry, I found it: a bar of dark chocolate, 70% cocoa, artisan and refined with orange oil (and of course fair-trade). It would go perfectly with the champagne.

“Here,“ I said, opening the package. “Have a piece.“ 

He looked at it, furrowing a brow. 

“I know you prefer Cadbury’s Dairy Milk,“ I added, “but go on. Try it.“

Still sceptically, he opened it, took a little piece and put it in his mouth. “Mhh,“ he said then. “That’s different. Bit bitter. But wow, it’s so smooth.“

I grinned. Now I would go all out. “Dark chocolate is said to be an aphrodisiac, too.“

“Oh yeah. It works. I’m super hard already.“ He winked.

My eyes probably grew to the size of tennis balls and it took me a second or two to realise that he was joking. His grin got brighter and brighter and then he snorted a laugh, put his glass on the table and walked over to me. 

“Thank you,“ he said. “It’s been a great birthday.“

I hung my head. “You’re really not mad? I didn’t get you anything, this place is a mess…“

“Oh, c’mon, don’t look so gloomy.“ He looked around and then picked up a used tea towel that somehow had sneaked underneath the oven. “Are you talking about _this_? Yeah. Big mess. And it’s never been about material things.“ And then I felt his hand on my arm. “If I cared, d’you think I’d stick around for forty years?“

He gave me the warmest, fondest smile. I had always loved his smile, it had the ability to brighten up the dullest days. Neither of us said anything and the silence between us created closeness--not the physical closeness I had been thinking about earlier. That kind of closeness I had never felt with anyone but him, with no lover or boyfriend I’d had over the years. With no-one else was I as comfortable as I was with him. And he was right. Forty years and he was still there. _We_ were still there. Sometimes I thought about how I’d met him and how unlikely it was, that of all people in the whole world he had come into that shop on that very day. And while everything around us actually had changed, we had somehow not. Eventually, this last thought conjured a smile upon my face, which in return made his even brighter.

“I really appreciate that, Chris,“ I said. “Thank you.“

“It’s my pleasure. Honest.“ I felt his grip tightening around my wrist. Suddenly I was sure that I would not allow him to let go again. Feeling his hand was reassuring, safe, warm and reviving. He didn’t seem to plan to let go, either. Instead, his hand slid down my arm and found my fingers, and I didn’t even know if it was him or me who took the other one’s hand first. It was as easy as connecting two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And holding his hand made me feel whole again. I could actually only remember one occasion where we’d held hands in the past, and that was before our very first live performance on TV, and not longer than three seconds (we’d been dead nervous). But right now, it felt amazing. I gave his hand a soft squeeze.

He walked back to the living room, still holding my hand, and I followed. When we sat down on my sofa, I had to let go of his hand, and I did reluctantly. I knew that I would definitely not let him leave again for at least the next three days. Maybe even a week. And I also knew I would get this hand back on me, somehow. For a few seconds I only looked at him. I had looked at him so many times within the last 40 years, I probably knew every single inch of his body. And yet I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

He seemed to be more distant now, though, since we’d sat down. His hands were folded in his lap between his spread legs and he looked down at them.

“Hey,“ I said, while breaking off another piece of chocolate. He raised his head. “Have some more.“

I held it in front of his mouth and, after another reassuring look into my eyes, he took it. My fingertips brushed over his lips when I withdrew my hand. His lips were perfectly soft, a nice contrast to the slightly rough skin around them.

“It’ll be gone soon if you’re not careful“, he said. “Leave some for yourself. Here, pass me the choc.“

I did and he broke off another piece, then stretched his hand out--and stopped. His fingers were trembling. I could tell that he was nervous, even though I didn’t understand why; we weren’t doing anything we’d never done before. We had done things much more intimate than hand feeding each other in the past, and we’d been sharing food for almost four decades now. Wasn’t it incredible? After all these years we could still feel like this around each other; shy, excited, nervous. I decided to take it as a compliment. 

“What’s making you nervous?“

“Nothing.“ His voice was trembling too, like his hands.

I didn’t want him to feel nervous, while on the other hand, his nervousness was also adorable. But there was no need for it. I wanted him to know that he really couldn’t do anything wrong. Neither of us knew yet what else we’d do and how the evening would evolve, but I wanted him to know that whatever felt right would be fine. And every little second of physical contact so far had felt _very_ right.

“I’m the one who bollocksed up your birthday, Chris,“ I said with a smile. “Don’t be.“ And then I took his hand, led it to my mouth and I saw surprise and arousal and excitement in his eyes when I did. My confidence returned to me. Finally, after I’d felt like an idiot for most of the day since Chris had turned up. Now I was back to my old self. I knew what I wanted and what I needed today.

I traced his index finger with the tip of my tongue and grasped his hand tighter. His skin was soft and warm and the smell of my aloe vera soap still lingered on it. Carefully, I picked up the chocolate, but not without touching his fingers with my lips again. I would leave it to him to decide if it was a kiss or not. His skin on my lips in addition to the rich and smooth chocolate in my mouth made me shiver and I couldn’t suppress a moan anymore. I wanted to taste more of him. Chris gasped. A sign for me that it hadn’t left him unaffected.

_Definitely time to take a step back again_ , I thought, and put the chocolate away. _Don’t go too fast. You have all evening. And all night._ “It would be a shame if we weren’t hungry anymore once the cake’s ready, wouldn’t it,“ I said, as serious as I possibly could. For Chris, dark chocolate probably didn’t count as a sweet treat though and he would dig into the cake no matter what. But he never seemed to show it, unlike me. I only had to look at sugary things these days and I put on weight. Chris on the other hand was still slim and lanky, no matter how many sandwiches with questionable fillings he ate.

The tension ebbed a bit, which gave us the chance to have a proper conversation. Nothing work-related, just a normal catch up, which was something we both needed. He told me about some game he’d been playing, and I took great effort in trying to understand it – apparently, you’d go outside to catch some sort of monsters (virtually, of course), which you could then train on your phone. A very clever and ingenious way to discharge your phone in no time at all and use up your mobile data. I didn’t even know that our phones could do this kind of thing.

“You haven’t even tried it,“ he said, defending himself. “I caught one outside your house earlier!” Well, yeah, that same man had also rung me in the past to let me know the Teletubbies were on, so what can I say.

In return, he listened to me talking about what I was planning to do with my garden: I had recently started to set up a Japanese stone garden in one corner and finding plants and decoration for it had become a bit of a new obsession. I actually got a bit lost in rambling about it, and I didn’t notice at all that Chris had stopped listening.

“So,“ I said, considering that I had bothered him with my garden long enough, “anything else you wanna do this weekend?“

The reaction to this question was not quite what I had expected. My question was casual, without any hidden agenda, I swear. I’d been anticipating something like _go for a walk, binge-watch some show on Netflix_. But instead, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. It was quick, yet tender and soft, and it went straight from my cheek to other parts of me.

The surprise effect hit me quite hard. Usually, Chris wasn’t the one who’d make the first move. He also didn’t seem to crave physical affection as much as I did, most of the time. So I really didn’t expect him to kiss me. And he seemed just as surprised. But don’t get me wrong--I liked him being like this. That little bit forward going. Actions that showed me what he wanted.

I looked at him. He looked at me. And then the timer in the kitchen went off. 

I hurriedly got up and headed to the kitchen, without any other words to Chris. I regretted that I didn’t say anything to him, and the timing couldn’t have been worse, but with his kiss he really had told me everything I needed to know already. Once the cake situation was under control, there would be time for other things. But for now, we had to finish what we had started earlier.

I got the cake out of the oven and…well. It didn’t look as good as the photo in the book. It definitely resembled a brick more than a sponge cake – _fluffy_ would have been the very last adjective one would choose to describe it.

While I was still examining it, Chris put the strawberries back into the microwave to defrost them again, then got the whipped cream out of the fridge. I gulped. A can of whipped cream in his hands took my mind off the cake again and back to him. It had begun harmlessly, the whipped cream thing, with him telling me that there was a bit of cream on my cheek, and before I knew what was happening, he had kissed my cheek and licked it off. Well. If that was what I could look forward to after a kiss on the cheek…Then the evening was really getting better by the second.

I tried to push the thoughts away again, though. Right now, I had to focus on other things. I got a plate out, placed the cake on it and cut out a little piece. It was still steaming when I cut into it.

“Oh, birthday boy,“ I trilled, suddenly feeling very silly and full of joy. Chris turned around. I held the fork out to him. “Blow on it, it’ll be hot.“

He did, then took the piece of cake. I watched his face very carefully. He chewed a few times before he swallowed. He avoided eye contact, scratched the back of his head, then put his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m sorry,“ he said, still not really looking at me. “It’s…not very good.“

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. I had expected it. The whole thing had been cursed from the beginning, the whole day was cursed. But was it really? Wasn’t my showing up at the door with my nightcap a hilarious memory? I knew that this day, the baking, my inability to get the measurements right, the folding process, it would become a wonderful memory. And a funny one. So there was absolutely no reason to be sad about it. Instead, his telling me that the cake wasn’t good just added up to the absurdity of it all, and I started giggling. Loudly. That kind of giggle that made my voice sound really high-pitched.

“Ah, well, gave it the old college try, didn’t we?“ I said.

“Yeah.“

“I’ll have a bite just to see.” I couldn‘t deny that I was curious, I had to know how bad it really was. So I cut out another piece and, well, I was close to spitting it out again. It was _awful_. It was salty, sort of solid but due to the almond flour also crumbly, not at all cake-like. And slightly burnt as well.

“Chris. It’s _inedible_.” I was still giggling. It was like a joke.

Chris snorted. “Well, you put a whole teaspoon of salt in there!”

I stopped laughing. “That’s what it said!”

Chris sighed. “Erm…no.“

Indignantly, I picked up the book to check the recipe and there it was. Right in front of me. ¼ of a teaspoon. How did I read it as 1? Maybe my eyes were getting worse, too. 

“Oh, these bloody American measurements,“ I snapped and slammed the book shut.

“NO cake recipe calls for a full teaspoon of salt, love,“ Chris said.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?“

“What would you have done then? UNMIX it?“ 

I sighed. A big, dramatic sigh.

“Well,” I said then. There was no point in dwelling on it. Now that we knew for sure now that we were not good bakers, or at least I wasn’t, it was time to return to the things we were good at. And there were some things Chris was very, very good at. I smiled. “I say we bin this disaster and continue what we were doing, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

“Y-yeah.“ The nervousness had returned to his voice and it melted my heart. I couldn’t help it, it was too loveable when he got all shy like this. I put the knife into the sink and decided to ignore the cake for the time being. I was craving his touch like mad now, I needed to feel him.

I turned away to leave the kitchen, but Chris didn’t follow, so I stopped and waved him over to me with my index finger and a wink. Now he walked up to me and when we went to the living room, he stayed closely by my side, only a few inches behind me, and we both knew what it meant. A silent consent. From now on, we would simply follow our intuition and see where it would take us. I sat down first, leaning against the armrest of my loveseat (could there be a more appropriate word?), one leg stretched out, the other leg bent and the foot on the floor. He hesitated, probably realising that the only possible way for him to sit down was between my legs. His eyes wandered down my legs, then back up, rested for a second (I could only guess where), then finally came back to my own eyes.

I signaled him with a quick nod to sit down. Chris licked his lips again and he probably didn’t even realise he did. It was something he did a lot when he was nervous. Then he sat down, his back against my chest, his head resting on my shoulder. He still felt a bit stiff.

“There,“ I said, trying to resist the urge to kiss his neck, which happened to be very close to my mouth now. The smell of him, just him, was driving me mad and the weight of his body on my own was overwhelming. I guessed that he could feel how overwhelmed I was. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No, it was pretty easy, actually. So, is this what you wanted?” I could almost hear the coy smile on his face, I didn’t have to see it. “To cuddle up with me?”

“Oh, Chris…“

I sighed and reached behind me, trying to find the chocolate I had left there earlier. I knew that I didn’t need to say anything anymore. We’d reached the point where we had to give in. Once I’d found the package, I broke off another piece and he took my hand in his own when he began to suck it. I closed my eyes and leaned forward, so that my cheek touched the back of his head and I inhaled deeply. When the chocolate was gone, he continued to suck my finger instead. And oh my, I could hardly contain myself now. His lips and his tongue on my hands, sensually licking and sucking on my skin, were more than I could take and unconsciously, I clenched my hand into the fabric of his hoodie.

“Chris.“

He tried to face me, which looked unavoidably funny from this perspective. He was still holding on to my hand.

“Turn around.“ 

I was surprised that I was still able to talk, after what he had done to me. He shifted and turned and ended up kneeling in front of me, with my leg between his own legs. I put my hands on his waist.

“Now,“ I said, gazing into his eyes. “Kiss me like you mean it.“


End file.
